


Dyeing Changes Everything

by Dee_Laundry



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Domestic, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-21
Updated: 2008-09-21
Packaged: 2017-10-17 19:52:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dee_Laundry/pseuds/Dee_Laundry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson does something <i>really</i> stupid but everything works out fine.  Featuring clown references, a cup of tea, speakerphone, possible cartoon kink, voyeurism, meddling parents, “ill repute,” and a wood nymph.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dyeing Changes Everything

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in an alternate version of Season Four, in which Wilson began dating House instead of Amber.  
> Custom written for [](http://poeia.livejournal.com/profile)[**poeia**](http://poeia.livejournal.com/) as a thank-you for donating to The Robert Sean Leonard Birthday Charity Drive benefiting Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDS. Thank you to the ever-wonderful [](http://daisylily.livejournal.com/profile)[**daisylily**](http://daisylily.livejournal.com/) for beta, a few First Readers for pain suggestions and support, and [](http://xaipw.livejournal.com/profile)[**xaipw**](http://xaipw.livejournal.com/) for the prompt that kicked this off.

Wilson was woken, on a nicely sunny morning, by an elephantine bellow echoing out from the bathroom. His mental House-monitor began to scream, _pain, pain, pain_ , and he was instantly alert, up out of bed before he even consciously thought to move.

He skidded on the bathroom doorsill but steadied himself with the jamb. In front of the mirror, House was standing tall. _Good sign_ , Wilson had time to note before the man whirled on him, demanding angrily, “What in the fucking hell?”

It took a second for Wilson’s adrenaline to begin to ebb and for him to realize what House was referring to.

The new color of House’s hair. Oh. That hadn’t turned out the way Wilson had hoped.

“It was just supposed to cover the gray!” he protested. “You know, make you look a little younger, a nice surprise.”

House’s face was threatening to become the same color as his hair. “A surprise? A fucking surprise? I wake up in the morning looking like Ronald McDonald and all you have to say is, ‘Oops, surprise’?”

Wilson cringed. It really, _really_ hadn’t turned out the way he’d hoped. _Damage-control time_. “It’s not that red.”

Barely controlled fury poured into each of House’s next three words: “Yes, it _is_.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. “No, it’s not. I swear.” Wilson’s hands were moving in appeasement gestures, the best ones in his arsenal, and House wasn’t buying it, but he couldn’t stop. “The lighting in here is bad. You look like... um... well, with the stubble... Oh, I’ve got it! Willie Nelson! If he had short hair.”

No change in House’s stony expression. Damn.

“C’mon,” Wilson wheedled. “The Red Headed Stranger? Original bad boy of country music? Pot-smoking outlaw rebel, personal friend of Waylon Jennings and Johnny Cash?”

Eyes flashing, House advanced on Wilson, making him twist and cringe. “You’d better get ready for the fucking Ring of Fire, because I’m putting you through it.”

“It’s sexy. Really. I swear.” His shoulder blade caught on the doorjamb, and there was nowhere else to go.

A long index finger approached his nose and then suddenly whipped away and jabbed out the doorway. “Get back in that damn bedroom unless you want to learn what it’s like going through life as a platinum blond.”

Wilson moved immediately, back into the bedroom and onto the bed, feeling that he only needed whiskers and a skinny tail to make his scrambling, scurrying imitation of Steve McQueen complete. He had no clue what House would do now. Retreat for privacy? Tug on a shirt to go with his slept-in sweatpants and storm out? Wreck something of Wilson’s?

He’d really screwed up this time. Not that he hadn’t before, but this was different because –

House strode into the room, and Wilson’s thoughts stopped. Even without his cane, even with the morning pain that was almost always a notch higher than any other time of day, House was _striding_ , hardly limping at all.

 _Pissed_.

“I didn’t mean to –” Wilson began, stopping when House’s glare intensified. He tried again with, “It’s not too –”

“Enough!” House barked. “You talking is not helping at all.” He threw himself onto his side of the bed hard enough to bounce Wilson.

“But I –”

“You want to take one tiny inch of a step toward making it up to me?” House asked, eyebrow raised, arm jammed behind his head, body stretched long and lean and taut down the mattress. “Use that mouth for something other than jabbering.”

Wilson blinked in surprise. _That_ was new. Then again, coloring House’s hair while he slept was new, too, so...

He rubbed his neck as he considered House’s demand, totally conflicted. On the one hand, he didn’t want to establish a precedent of coerced sex being an appropriate retribution for trespasses against each other. On the other hand, he _did_ feel terribly remorseful, and a blowjob _would_ help House feel happier and less stressed, and honestly, House getting strongly aggressive was a complete and utter turn-on... and Wilson’s hands were already shoving House’s sweatpants down, so that was the answer, right there.

* * *

By the time they left for work, only a half-hour late, Wilson had almost convinced himself that everything would be fine. House’s hair wasn’t that bad. It was considerably past auburn in tint, yes, but not as garish as House kept loudly proclaiming it was. It was fine, handsome even. The gray was gone, that was for sure, and that – what was the word? Meaning “made younger-looking”? Youth-something... youth-a-nized him?

No, _that_ wasn’t it. Anyway.

The color was fine. House looked fine. Everything was going to be fine, fine, fine.

They walked into the lobby together, Wilson’s everyday smile in place, and while House was sullen and glowering, that wasn’t an unusual occurrence, so... fine. Everything was ordinary. They were passing the reception desk, and no one had even given them a second glance.

Almost to the elevators, and no one –

“House!”

Man, House’s team had come out of nowhere. But they had a patient file with them, and eager looks on their faces – obviously a good case. They’d be laser-focused on that; they sure would. Wilson found himself nodding.

“Forty-seven-year-old woman presents with intermittent vision difficulties, dizziness, and rash,” Thirteen said, handing the folder over to House.

As House’s head dipped over the file, Taub’s eyes widened. _Shit_.

“Nice ’do,” Taub said, and Kutner broke into a grin.

“Same color as Ronald McDonald!”

Wilson bolted.

* * *

After seven voicemails, fifteen text messages, and that obnoxiously gloating phone call from the recently hair-plugged Smith in Nephrology, Wilson had to concede that House’s hair wasn’t as inconspicuous as he’d thought.

When his phone buzzed for the third time in two minutes, he nodded apologetically at Professor Kruglyak and excused himself into the hall.

House was already talking as Wilson brought his phone to his ear. “– hell are you?”

“In a meeting.”

“ _Where_? You haven’t been around all morning.”

“Um...” Oncology was pursuing an important opportunity in genetic research, a complex subject, so it wasn’t surprising, really, that Wilson would have to head over to Princeton’s Biology Department to speak to the Professor of Integrative Genomics. Not surprising at all. And the fact that that department happened to be on the other end of the campus from the hospital was irrelevant. Really. “I –”

“Never mind. You need to call your lawyer, your family’s rabbi, and your mother.”

“What?” Wilson was totally confused. “Why?”

“Because by the end of the day you’re going to be dead.”

The click was as loud as a slam, and Wilson sighed as he hit the “End” key. He hadn’t wanted to bring Cuddy into this, but it was obvious he was going to need her help.

Three hours later Wilson was climbing into his Volvo with House in tow, hand-signed slip guaranteeing an emergency appointment clutched tightly in his hand.

“This isn’t the salon _you_ go to, is it?” House demanded.

“You and I get our hair cut at the same place,” Wilson reminded him as they made their way out of the parking lot. “This is Cuddy’s guy.”

With his hat jammed as far down as it would go over his head, House was looking out the window, but he turned suddenly at the mention of Cuddy’s name.

“She colors her hair?”

Wilson sent a skeptical glance House’s way before focusing again on the road. “You think she naturally has no gray? Do you know _nothing_ about women?”

“Shut the fuck up,” House growled, and Wilson did.

The rest of the car ride over was spent in silence. And in scowling, but that was to be expected. When Wilson pulled into a spot right in front of the salon, House threw his plastic handicapped permit onto the dash so hard that Wilson was surprised the windshield didn’t crack.

The shop had a welcoming atmosphere with warm woods and neutral colors. There were fresh flowers on the reception desk, but nothing in the place was frilly or fussy, and Wilson began to hope that House could relax here and not give Cuddy’s colorist too hard a time. As Wilson gave House’s name, House actually refrained from insulting the receptionist, which was an excellent sign.

The colorist, Kyi, a handsome man with short spiked hair who pulled off a vest better than Cameron ever had, retrieved them from the waiting area before they even had a chance to sit down. _Awesome_. This was going to go well. House’s hair would get fixed, and the whole incident would blow over, until one day – fifty years or so in the future – they’d be able to look back on this and laugh.

“You are very lucky,” Kyi said as he settled House into the chair. “I was planning to take the afternoon off today, but Lisa is my favorite customer. Her sweet charms are the only reason I decided to squeeze you in.”

“You’re not squeezing me in anywhere,” House retorted, his ire visibly rising as he caught sight of his hair in the mirror. “I’ve got _that_ asshole for that.”

Wilson ducked House’s out-flung arm and winced. “House...” he pleaded, knowing all the while that his mild admonishment meant nothing at that point.

Ignoring both House and Wilson completely, Kyi clucked as he examined House’s head from every angle. “You just did this coloring, right?”

“ _I_ didn’t do it,” House replied before Wilson could get his mouth open. “My stupid fucking idiot almost-ex-boyfriend did it.”

“Last night,” Wilson clarified, and Kyi frowned at him.

“You. Out. I work alone.”

“Um,” Wilson said, wanting to protest, but suddenly there were two glares focused on him, and retreat did seem the more prudent choice.

As he slunk away, he heard Kyi continue, “It’s not that bad.”

“Are you blind?” House bellowed. “I don’t want a blind person coming anywhere near my hair.”

Even without looking, Wilson could _feel_ Kyi’s eyes rolling.

“The color obviously is terrible, but it’s a high quality dye, so re-dyeing won’t damage your hair too badly.”

House snorted. “Of course it’s a high quality dye; my motherfucking _idiot boyfriend_ wouldn’t spare any expense to –” House’s voice abruptly rose to a yell – “ _mutilate me while I sleep_.”

Wilson’s shoulders were starting to hurt from wincing so much, but he managed to slump into a chair in the waiting room and grab the nearest available magazine as a diversion and concealment.

All that his eyes were registering were flashes of color and vague impressions of text as he flipped pages and fretted. A few moments later, a ceramic cup appeared in front of his face, and he pulled back in surprise.

“It’s Earl Grey,” a soft alto voice informed him. “I thought you could maybe use a nice cup of tea.”

He took the cup gratefully and glanced up with a shy smile. “Thanks.”

The salon receptionist smiled back, her mauve lipstick a gorgeous shade with her skin tone, and headed behind the desk to settle into her chair. “My pleasure.” She regarded him for a moment with soft eyes, and he had to admit the sympathy felt pretty good.

“How long have you two been together?” she continued.

Sipping his tea, Wilson shrugged. “That’s a hard question to answer. We’ve known each other a long time, though.”

The receptionist nodded. “My boyfriend’s a yeller, too. He never means nothing by it, though. Get him behind closed doors and he’s just a big ol’ cuddle-bear.”

As a few favorite memories flicked through his mind, Wilson smiled. “Yeah, I –”

“ _James Wilson!_ ”

They must have moved House to another chair because his voice sounded as loud and clear as if he was in the waiting area with them.

“ _You are **so** lucky you have a tight hole and a talent for cocksucking!_ ”

The receptionist turned a deep shade of pink; Wilson buried his face in Teen Vogue again.

* * *

House’s hair was _gorgeous_ by the time all was said – Wilson sighed – and done. Beautiful color, flattering cut – Kyi seemed to have snuck in a style as well as the coloring – and the texture of House’s hair was amazing for having endured two chemical treatments in less than twenty-four hours. And, yes, as House pointed out, it was incredibly gay that Wilson knew that, but the fact remained that Kyi had worked a near-miracle.

“Genius,” Wilson murmured as he handed over his credit card, determined not to look at the cost now or when the statement came in. He pulled a crisp hundred from his wallet and handed it to Kyi, who tucked it into his pocket without looking.

“Give Lisa kisses for me,” Kyi called as Wilson opened the door to go.

“Yeah, he’s not allowed to do that,” House replied, but a considerable amount of the bite in his tone was gone.

Behind House’s departing back, Kyi gestured toward his shoulders in a squeezing motion and mouthed, “Massage.”

“Thank you,” Wilson said earnestly, and let himself be dragged to the Volvo.

The relaxation from the massage looked good on House, but it never translated into better treatment for Wilson. Home and dinner and TV and bedtime and breakfast the next day –House’s foul mood persisted throughout all of it. Wilson didn’t mind, though. He _couldn’t_ mind, because it was all his due.

He wasn’t surprised when House insisted on driving to work alone on the bike, and he wasn’t surprised when he didn’t see much of House at work. After a lonely solo lunch, he retreated to his office to finish some extremely important, no, _critical_ paperwork. That it had been assigned to the Oncology Department before Wilson had been made head only showed how dangerously overdue it was.

Really.

The sun had dipped close to the horizon when Wilson’s door flew open. “Hey,” he called without looking up, and followed House’s progress to the guest chair in his peripheral vision.

House paused before sitting down and abruptly said, “I hate the word ‘boyfriend.’”

“What?” Wilson replied, because that sentence hadn’t had one single profanity in it.

“Because you left me no choice but to tell everyone about your monumental screw-up, I must’ve said the word ‘boyfriend’ a thousand times in the past day and a half, and it’s a stupid word.”

“It’s –”

House gestured angrily, a decisive slash. “Don’t defend it. It’s a stupid word, and saying it makes me feel like a fourteen-year-old half-virgin girl.”

Wilson couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows in confusion. “Half-virgin?”

“Shut up. I refuse to say ‘boyfriend’ any more because it’s just too damn juvenile.”

Unable to bear House’s glare any longer, Wilson dropped his gaze to his desktop and quietly said, “OK.” This was it, he supposed. While not totally undeserved, the rejection still hurt like hell.

The slight thump of a one-inch-square box hitting his blotter startled him, and he looked up into House’s eyes, as his hand reflexively reached for the box.

“Fiancé,” House said seriously. “Much less silly word.”

“Oh,” Wilson replied, his hand tightening around the box. “I thought I blew it with the hair dye.”

“You did. It was moronic and ridiculous and if you ever do anything like it again, I will shave one or more to-be-determined parts of your anatomy.” House looked down to the carpet; his cane began to twist back and forth. “But when I woke up this morning, I was next to you. I realized that even after what you’d done to me, I had, with no concern at all, closed my eyes again in your presence. That kind of trust doesn’t come along every day. And I...” House swallowed. “I really hate the word ‘boyfriend.’”

Wilson felt his smile trembling as he pressed the ring box to his chest. “Me too.”

* * *

For the next few days, according to Cuddy’s eyewitness reports and Wilson’s own observations, House took great glee in calling Wilson his “ex-boyfriend” at every opportunity, until he came upon one of the night nurses offering to take Wilson out for a consoling cup of coffee. The resulting shit-fit kept Wilson secretly grinning for hours – after apologizing to innocent Alfred, of course – and ended all misleading usage of that term.

Life returned to what had always passed for normal. House was still an asshole to just about everybody – and still the most brilliant doctor in the hospital. Wilson was still a hard-working, affable department head. If he smiled a bit more than he used to, no one mentioned it.

Several weeks later, Cuddy stopped by Wilson’s office for a chat, and the conversation eventually turned to House and Wilson’s engagement and the eventual ceremony. Cuddy asked about the date, and Wilson had to confess he didn’t know. She asked about the venue, and he replied again that he didn’t know. She asked what kind of food he was thinking of for the reception, and Wilson had to stop her right there.

“I’m sorry,” he said with a true apologetic tone, “but I’m probably not going to have an opinion on anything you ask. Contrary to what House likes to imply, I am in fact a _guy_ , and party planning doesn’t happen to be one of my interests.”

“Well, I know _House_ isn’t going to organize anything,” she replied, shaking her head. “And if _you’re_ not interested in details, then what the hell are you two going to do? Beer bust in your backyard?”

Wilson smiled at the twinkle in Cuddy’s eye. “That’s actually not a bad idea. Simple and easy. House and I haven’t really talked about it yet; we’ll see.”

Cuddy laughed and turned the conversation to hospital matters.

* * *

By the next time the civil union ceremony came up with Cuddy, things had changed significantly.

Wilson and Cuddy were in his office finding backup for certain budget figures when the phone rang. He needed to continue rummaging through his file cabinet, so he put the call on speakerphone.

“Dr. Wilson! It’s Cindy.”

Wilson mouthed, “Wedding planner,” to Cuddy, and then said toward the speaker, “Yes?”

“Is there any chance you’d be willing to delay the ceremony with Dr. House until 2010?”

“No,” he replied, wondering what this was about. Cuddy leaned in toward the phone, obviously interested as well.

“I didn’t think so, but... Oh, I’m so _sorry_ , Dr. Wilson; it’s just that St. Patrick’s Cathedral is booked for another twenty-three months.”

He shared a round of confused blinks with Cuddy and then said, “Good?”

“Good?” Cindy echoed.

He straightened his shoulders, closed the file cabinet, and took a seat. “Well, I’m Jewish, and while my parents are accepting, they wouldn’t be so keen on me marrying an atheist in a Catholic church.” He had to grin at Cuddy’s smirk, which was eerily similar to that of a certain someone he knew. “Plus, I’m pretty sure Catholic priests don’t bless civil unions.”

“But Dr. House said this was your lifelong dream!”

Wilson’s eyes rolled in tandem with Cuddy’s, so hard he thought a blood vessel or two might burst.

“Dr. House says a lot of things,” Wilson replied, doing his best to keep his voice even. Cuddy’s silent giggling wasn’t helping. “Any other options for sites?”

“The Frick is still a possibility.”

Trying to place it, Wilson said quietly, “The Frick?”

“What the Frick?” Cuddy murmured; Wilson had to wave her pun away.

Then he got it. “You mean The Frick Collection? The museum?”

“The membership fee, so that you’d be eligible to have the ceremony there, is somewhat expensive,” Cindy conceded. “But it’s a lovely venue. _And_ where your first date was. So romantic.”

Cuddy’s chuckles were threatening to become audible.

“Yeah,” Wilson replied to Cindy with a sigh. “I don’t think House has ever set foot in that building. Our first date was actually at... Never mind. I’ll just say it wasn’t appropriate for a family occasion, and leave it at that.”

“Oh.”

“Let me talk to House and call you back.”

The click of the phone hanging up was Cuddy’s cue to burst out in laughter. “ _What_ is going on?” she asked between chuckles.

Smirking, Wilson joined in her amusement. “Turns out House’s obsessive nature extends toward a lot of things. He’s gotten really, strangely into wedding planning.” At her incredulous look, Wilson raised his hands in surrender. “I can’t explain it. All I know is that he’s taking great joy in (a) learning everything there ever was to know about _anything_ having to do with ceremonies and receptions, and (b) driving the wedding planner he’s hired completely around the bend with his insanely intense demands.”

Cuddy shifted closer to Wilson’s desk in a full-on gossip-ready stance. “I can _not_ picture House caring about flowers and colors and place settings. I’d think he’d find those details entirely too girly.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed it either.” Wilson dipped into the bottom drawer of his desk for his secret stash of Lindt chocolates, and pushed the box across to Cuddy. “But he seems to have a head for those kinds of details. And as for it being too girly, well...”

Unsure how exactly to explain, Wilson trailed off. He wasn’t quite sure how other people would take what House was doing: as just House being House, or as a line being incorrectly crossed. Wilson wasn’t even exactly sure how _he_ felt about it.

“What?” Cuddy prompted around the confection in her mouth. Wilson took a meringue to bolster his spirits.

“House decided that around the wedding planner it would be amusing to –”

“Oh no.”

“To, um, take on exaggerated mannerisms that have been stereotypically associated with homosexual men.”

Cuddy smirked and took another chocolate. “He’s acting like a total queen, isn’t he?”

“Pretty much the biggest flamer who ever flamed,” Wilson sighed.

“It can’t be that bad.”

After pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation, Wilson elaborated, “Limp-wristed gestures, crude sexual references – well, that’s the same as before – mincing –”

“How do you mince with a limp?” Cuddy asked skeptically.

“Animatronics?” He was only partly kidding with that guess. “I have no idea how he does it, but it’s a sight to see. As are the hissy fits he throws around Cindy.”

Cuddy laughed. “Like the tantrums he’s had at the hospital?”

“Oh, no. These are decidedly screechier. Histrionics of the highest order.” Snagging a tiramisu, Wilson leaned in closer to Cuddy. “He’s even produced tears.”

“I wondered why he’d been nicer to me lately, calmer. He’s taking all his insanity out on that poor woman.”

“That’s about the long and short of it. I know I should try to get him to knock it off, but well, Cindy’s getting paid to put up with him. She also swears up and down he’s not her worst Bridezilla.” He smirked at the thought of a giant House with a long lizard’s tail and a bridal veil wrecking Manhattan; Cuddy’s expression indicated she was no doubt picturing the same thing. “And House is having a ball with it all.”

He’d been amusing himself so much with the wedding planning, in fact, that Wilson was considering maybe postponing the ceremony another year or so, just to continue getting all the free time to get his work done. It had been _awesome_.

* * *

“Yellow or pink?”

“I’m not even through the door yet, House.”

“And now you’re through.” Fabric fluttered in Wilson’s face as he tried to get his briefcase tucked into its customary spot under the hall table. “Yellow?” House demanded. “Or pink?”

Straightening from his stoop, Wilson had to struggle to focus on the still-fluttering fabric. “Are those... curtains?”

“Shirts, Ding-dong.” House took a step back and draped the two pastel tees across his chest. “The unicorn here on the yellow is more directly representative of our people.”

 _Oh, dear Lord, not this_. “So Cindy’s coming over tonight, I take it.” Grabbing the mail and heading toward the living room, Wilson continued, “How are you going to wear either of those things when they’re like three sizes too small? And where’d you get them, anyway?”

“Lost and Found box in the Clinic.” House twisted back and forth, looking at the two shirts. “It’s actually good that they’re small; the tight fit’ll show off my muscles.”

“And cut off your circulation.” Nothing good in the mail that day, not even a new journal; just bills and flyers.

“They’re not that small.” House tossed the yellow shirt across the back of the couch and held the pink one up for inspection. “I think I’m going to go with the pink. The unicorn’s representative, as I said, but Hello Kitty is much more suggestive of kink.”

“I know when _I_ see a child’s cartoon character I immediately think, ‘Kinky.’” House’s old shirt came flying toward Wilson’s head; he batted it aside.

“C’mon, she’s Japanese. You _know_ she’s got a secret fetish for rope bondage or _bukkake_ or something.” House was having some trouble getting the t-shirt collar over his head; Wilson was having similar trouble not laughing.

Sinking slowly onto the couch, he replied, “Yes, I’m sure that’s what Hello Kitty’s mak–”

 _Wiggling!_ was all his brain had time to register, and he was back up on his feet, listening to piercing yips and watching the throw pillows squirm. “What the hell!”

“Don’t sit on her!” House yelled, pink cotton around his neck, as he leaned over the couch to bat at the cushions, coming away with a mop-like ball of fur in his hands. “I’ve got to give her back in one piece.” He twisted the fur-mop, which Wilson belatedly identified as a dog, inspecting various parts before settling the creature into the crook of his arm.

“Quit your yapping; you’re fine,” House told it with a friendly scratch to its head. “His ass isn’t _that_ big.”

Wilson ignored the insult (Compliment? With House, it was hard to tell) in favor of getting some information. “Where did you get a Yorkie?”

“Cameron loaned her to me.” At Wilson’s disbelieving look, House’s face scrunched. “Well, _technically_ Chase loaned her to me. But Duchess is Cameron’s dog.”

“Duchess?” Wilson inquired, and received a happy confirming bark from the dog.

“Yep.” House raised the pooch up to his face, rubbing her nose with his own. “Duchess is your name, isn’t it? Isn’t it? Sweet name for Mommy’s sweet baby.”

“And that answers _why_ you have a Yorkie.” Wilson cleared the cushions to ensure no other living creatures were lurking, and finally was able to relax on his own couch.

“Don’t listen to that mean old man, Duchie-Sweetie.” With the pink t-shirt still around his neck and a tiny dog under his arm, House was a sight to see, and Wilson couldn’t help grinning. “Let’s go get your hairbow before Miss Cindy gets here,” House continued, throwing the t-shirt over his shoulder like a boa and proceeding down the hall toward the bedroom.

Wilson flipped on the TV and channel-surfed over to ESPN.

* * *

That evening’s long and contentious meeting with Cindy The Wedding Planner (two-thirds of which Wilson spent hiding in the bedroom) was finally, _finally_ over, and dinner had been scrounged from nothing, and Wilson was grabbing five minutes’ rest on the couch before hauling himself up for the long trek to bed.

“Roses!” House snorted in disdain as he dropped onto the couch next to Wilson. “Can you believe she wanted to theme the flowers around _roses_?”

“They _are_ –”

“Completely over-done. Matsumoto asters are almost as versatile and not every Tom, Dick, and Harry has them plastered to every single surface during their reception.”

“If you say so, dear,” Wilson replied, purely to irk House and get those eyes flashing. Maybe Wilson wasn’t as tired as he’d thought. He tilted his head slightly back and away, emphasizing the long stretch of skin between shoulder and cheekbone that House found hard to resist, and looked at House sidelong. “Are you going to take that stupid shirt off now?”

Eyebrows lowering, House stared at him challengingly. “Make me.”

 _Hell, yeah_. A twist and a turn and Wilson was on House, lips, teeth, fingers, grappling with him, vying for position and advantage. One hand was up under that ridiculous Hello Kitty shirt – it was _soft_ , Wilson would give it that, and snug in absolutely every right way – and the other was on the back of House’s neck, fingers in his hair, tugging, pulling.

Wilson had will but House had better upper body strength, so it was Wilson forced down onto his back along the couch cushions, buttons half undone, breath half gone, kissing as if it was a competitive sport.

One which Wilson was totally winning. _Hell, yeah_.

He had House’s shirt rucked up above his nipples and had just breached the fastenings of House’s jeans when an uneasy feeling began to tickle his nerves. He wrenched his mouth away from House’s and panted at the ceiling, trying to gather his wits. House took the opportunity to molest the shell of Wilson’s ear, which would normally have been extremely welcome but in this case was only adding to the tickle.

Wilson pulled away, turning his head in the process, and there it was.

Over on the armchair, the fur-mop was sitting alertly, beady eyes trained on them.

“The dog,” Wilson gasped.

“What?” House’s response echoed over-loudly in Wilson’s ear, and he pushed House up to get a few inches’ distance.

“It’s watching us.”

House looked over at the dog and then back down at Wilson, eyes sparking with an even higher level of heat. “So she is.” Between the beginning of a blink and the end, House had swooped down, claiming Wilson’s lips in an assault of passion that left Wilson breathless.

House was grinning when he pulled back. “Side benefit to babysitting Duchess: we get to act out one of my fantasies.” He wiggled and twisted, pushing Wilson over on the cushion and sliding between Wilson’s body and the back of the couch.

Dazed, Wilson asked, “Since when do you fantasize about dogs?”

“Not bestiality, you moron.” House’s face contorted into disgust as one arm slid around Wilson’s shoulders and the other draped across his waist. “Gross. No, the one I talk about all the time. Putting on a show.”

Wilson realized belatedly that House was turning him toward the armchair, _displaying_ him. “You want to have sex in front of the dog?”

“I _want_ to have sex in front of your ex-wife Julie, but doing it in front of the dog will shut me up for a month or so.” House’s lips were back on the shell of Wilson’s left ear, caressing and teasing, tongue darting out to tickle lightly, warm breath...

House was making it extraordinarily easy to give in. Dog-watched sex wasn’t a kink of Wilson’s but he was good at not seeing what he didn’t want to, and ignoring the pooch wouldn’t be hard at all.

On the other hand, House was so eager – hard and hot – that this was a perfect time to demand a little _quid pro quo_. House wanted to put on a show; Wilson wanted a bit of open honesty – seemed like a fair trade.

“OK,” Wilson moaned, in the deep tone he knew House loved. “I’ll do what you want, exactly what you want.”

House let out a low rumble of a growl and nipped at Wilson’s jaw.

“But,” Wilson continued, as he rubbed his ass against House’s erection, “you have to give me something I want.”

“Yes,” House groaned, apparently lost in his pleasure. _Perfect_.

“I want you,” Wilson said, clutching at House’s hip and bringing their bodies closer together, “to tell me what you actually want in this wedding.”

House chuckled into Wilson’s shoulder. “A thousand peacocks dancing –”

“Not what you told Cindy.” Wilson continued rubbing his back and ass against House, slowly and strongly in the way that never failed to please him. “Not what you think will happen or should happen. Not what you’d admit is what you want. What you really, _truly_ want.”

House’s attentions slowed and then stilled for a good long beat. Wilson could practically hear the gears turning and knew House was gauging the costs and benefits of opening up. As a reminder of what House would get for honesty, Wilson opened the last buttons on his shirt and slid his ass slowly over House’s jeans-covered erection.

House let out a breath in a long stream as his hand crept around to tweak Wilson’s left nipple. “I want... extraordinarily good scotch. Break-the-bank expensive.”

“Mm.” The deal had been accepted; Wilson was feeling very, very satisfied.

“I want a concert violinist at the ceremony, and the best jazz trio in the East at the after-party,” House continued between kisses along Wilson’s jaw.

Wilson stretched luxuriously, reaching back again to grab House’s ass. “Mm.”

“Which will _not_ be a reception, because I don’t want to receive anybody. Except you, but that’s later.”

As House continued to toy with Wilson’s chest, Wilson’s hand slid down House’s ass to his strong, taut left thigh. “We have to have two witnesses at the ceremony, but there’s no reason we can’t make the after-party completely private.”

Wilson suddenly found himself twisted toward the seat cushions; House was yanking his arm from around Wilson’s shoulders and sitting up.

“Only you and me?” House asked, ignoring Wilson’s attempts to get the two of them unknotted. “You’d want that?”

With a judicious tug on House’s flank and a quick twist of his torso, Wilson was able to get settled comfortably on the couch again, flat on his back with his legs draped over House’s lap and the arm of the couch. He smiled at House, who was considering him with analytical skepticism.

“We’re not talking about me,” Wilson pointed out. “You’re telling me what _you_ want.”

With a snort House continued, “Well, then you misunderstood me. I want some people there; I just don’t want to do any of the host things.”

“Oh, I see.” Wilson tucked his right arm behind his head; he laid his left hand on House’s closest hip, wanting the warmth of touch. “Who do you want there?”

“This is both the ceremony and the party.” House was plucking at the legs of Wilson’s slacks, _twick_ , _twick_ , _twick_.

“Mm,” Wilson replied.

“I want Cuddy to be there, in that blue dress she wore to the poker event one year, except with a higher slit up the leg.”

“Mm.”

The fabric-plucking stopped, and House turned toward him, annoyed. “What’s with the ‘mm’s?”

“Just telling you I’m listening. Figured that was less annoying than, ‘I hear you.’”

“You were correct on that one,” House said with a grimace.

Wilson smiled and rubbed a circle on House’s hip. “Go on.”

“So I said Cuddy. I want my fellows to be there, and Foreman, in case any interesting diseases pop up in the middle.” _Twick_ , _twick_.

“Of course.”

“I want Cameron to be there, because she’s so pretty when she cries.”

“Mm.” Wilson tried not to beam at House’s sincerity. Little jokes, yes, but House meant all the things he was saying.

“I want Chase to be there with Cameron, because I want to confirm my suspicion that _he’s_ pretty when he cries.”

That one Wilson let himself smile at. “Mm.”

“I want every single one of the hospital’s nurses, and every single one of your ex-wives, and every single person going to that oncology conference in May.”

Surprising. Wilson wouldn’t have guessed that House would want a large event. “Because?”

“Show them you’re _mine_ ,” House replied with a sudden squeeze of Wilson’s legs. _Ah._

“Mm.” Wilson wallowed in the possessiveness for a second before continuing, “Anyone else?”

As House looked away, his fingers slipped lower to tickle at the back of Wilson’s knees. “My mother.”

“Yeah.” Wilson was glad to hear him ask for his mother; House deserved to have family there, standing up for him.

“And my father.”

But _that_ was a surprise. “Oh?” Wilson asked tentatively.

House looked right into Wilson’s eyes. “I want him to choke on his own bile when he’s forced to see you kiss me.”

Ah. “Anything else?”

Stroking his chin, House affected an over-exaggerated look of consideration. “Him croaking while I laugh and fondle your butt might be too traumatic for my mother, right?”

Wilson chuckled and tightened his hand on House’s hip. “Probably. Is there anything else, not having to do with your father, you want for the day?”

“No,” House replied firmly.

“Mm.” This conversation had gone so smoothly; Wilson couldn’t be happier. He slid his legs off House’s lap and stood up, grabbing at House’s hands to pull him up after. “Wanna know a secret?”

“Duh.”

Left arm around House’s waist, Wilson tugged him toward the bedroom. “Except for the bile-choking, I didn’t hear a single thing in there that I can’t get for you.”

House tried to stop, presumably to stare incredulously; Wilson wouldn’t let him. It was bedroom time.

“There are something on the order of four hundred people going to that conference,” House remarked.

“I can’t promise you they’ll all show up,” Wilson replied, “but I’ll invite every single one.”

“And –”

In the doorway of their bedroom, Wilson caught his fiancé up in a manly embrace. “House. Let me tell you what _I_ want.”

“I knew there had to be a catch.” House’s eyes rolled toward the ceiling in scorn, but Wilson didn’t care. House was here in his arms, listening.

“I want my parents and brother to be there,” Wilson explained. “I want you to show up sober and on time. Wait, let me be completely clear.” He slipped his arms to House’s waist and waited until House made eye contact.

“I want you to arrive twenty minutes before the ceremony, sober, and to stay sober until the ceremony’s over.”

House looked exasperated at that, but warmly exasperated, affectionately even, if Wilson wasn’t mistaken. “After that?”

“Drink away. I’ll even join you.” Wilson smiled and kissed House’s warm lips, slid his hands up that strong back and reveled in the power there.

He pulled back before the kiss could get too deep, though – one more thing he had to say.

“Just one last thing I want, the most important.” At House’s grunt of disapproval, Wilson smiled. “I want you to give me a chance to make you happy.”

The frown that crossed House’s face was one Wilson had seen before, full of discomfort and defensive rejection. “Wilson. If –”

“A chance,” Wilson pleaded, not willing to let this go. He wasn’t sure he truly deserved the opportunity, but House damn sure deserved the effort. “That’s all I’m asking for.”

House looked off over Wilson’s shoulder. _Please_ , Wilson begged silently as he pulled House closer.

“OK,” House said quietly, and Wilson wanted to do a victory dance. He settled for shoving House onto their bed instead.

Just about to clamber on as well, Wilson was struck with a recollection. He’d forgotten something important.

“Wilson?” House called after him, but he’d already made it to the living room and was back in the bedroom as quickly as he could be.

“Can’t forget your kink toy,” he said as he set the dog down on the dresser.

House grinned up at him. “You’re such a pervert.”

“Lucky for you,” Wilson retorted as he began slowly unzipping his slacks.

“Damn lucky,” House agreed.

* * *

Sunny and seventy, the day was simply gorgeous as Wilson stepped out onto the balcony of his brother’s hotel room. “Big day,” Paul noted.

“Good day,” Wilson replied with a smile.

Paul knocked into his shoulder and passed over a mug of coffee. “Fourth time’s the charm, huh?”

Wilson sipped Paul’s overly sweet coffee, an old family tradition. “Finally being with the right person’s the charm,” he said contentedly.

The hotel lawn was bright and green as Paul gestured toward it. “Maggie’s taken the kids down to the pool, but they’ll be back in plenty of time for lunch. Are we picking up House to go with us?”

“Nope. When he kicked me out yesterday, he said we can’t see each other until the ceremony. Bad luck, supposedly.”

After dropping into a chair, Paul kicked his feet up onto the balcony railing; Wilson couldn’t resist nudging them with an elbow.

“I always heard it was bad luck to see the _bride_ before the wedding. So are you the bride or is he?”

Wilson drained the rest of the coffee in spite of it now being too sweet for him. He’d developed a taste for things being a little bitterer. “We’re both brides,” he said with a grin. “You did pick up my gown yesterday, didn’t you?”

“Complete with ruffles and bows and shiny white pearly things,” replied Paul. When Wilson turned to go back in the room and shower, Paul caught him by the elbow. “I’m really happy for you, bro.”

Wilson smiled again in the morning sunshine, feeling warm all the way to his core. “Me too.”

* * *

“Jimmy, honey.”

“He’ll be here, Mom.”

Cindy the Wedding Tyrant had tucked Wilson, his brother, and his parents away in a small changing room while she finished the rest of the preparations. Which had been fine for about ten minutes.

“I’m just saying –”

Wilson rubbed his mother’s shoulder consolingly and steered her toward the door, with the thought of having her go out and “help” Cindy. “He’ll be here. He promised.”

“Jim.”

Wilson turned around and gave his father a nod. “Everything’s fine. It’s twenty-five minutes until we said the ceremony would start.”

“When you got married before –”

“When I got married before, I showed up way too early and sat around bored, getting my suit all wrinkled. House will be here.”

“House _is_ here,” said a tired voice from the doorway, and a jolt of concern rushed through Wilson. House sounded haggard, and when Wilson turned to him, he _looked_ haggard.

His hair was handsomely groomed – and free of gray; _another trip to Kyi?_ , Wilson wondered – and his jaw was smooth-shaven, but his face was drawn and tense. His shirt was pressed neatly and his suit jacket was crisp, but his shoulders were slumped and his hands were clamped white-knuckled on his cane.

Wilson rushed to his side, only distantly noticing the beautiful woman just behind him. “He needs to sit,” she said.

“Thank you, Ingrid.” Wilson helped House to the closest seat and knelt next to him, searching his face for the answer to what was going on.

House looked back at him intently, eyes clear, and Wilson had to stifle a gasp. _That_ was what – Oh God, he was so absolutely in love.

A blur of sage flashed in his peripheral vision, and Mom was there, extending a hand to Ingrid. “I’m Evelyn Wilson, James’ mother.”

“Ingrid. House needs me special last night and today.” She rubbed House’s shoulders, and Wilson smiled as House’s eyes closed in relief.

“James,” his mother called, her voice cracking into a higher register, and Wilson felt himself pulled away from House and escorted by both parents to the other side of the room.

Suddenly in the midst of a family huddle, Wilson felt ten years old again, caught teasing the dog or sneaking an extra dessert. “What?” he asked.

“What?” Mom repeated, as Dad loomed to her side, arms crossed and eyebrows knit. “Your fiancé has just brought this _person_ to your ceremony, and you don’t know why we’re concerned?”

“Person?”

“This woman, this –” Mom paused, apparently looking for the right word. “Person of ill repute,” she said finally.

Wilson looked back over at Ingrid, who was digging her fingers rhythmically into House’s shoulders and neck. She was as beautiful as ever, dressed today in a turquoise sheath dress that flattered both her figure and her complexion. Oh.

Turning back to his parents, Wilson whispered, “You think she’s a prostitute?”

“Why wouldn’t we think that?” Dad asked.

“I don’t know,” Wilson protested. “Maybe because you’re willing to give me an ounce of credit, that I wouldn’t be so stupid as to fall for someone who’d bring a hooker along when he marries me?”

Paul glanced over at House and observed, “She’s running her hands up and down his legs now.”

“She’s a masseuse!”

“And he’s wearing _sweatpants_ ,” Mom sneered.

 _Oh, last straw, seriously_. “Which means you’d be able to tell if he was getting sexual thrills from it!” Wilson replied, thoroughly fed up.

“Hey,” House called. “You realize you don’t have a cone of silence around you, right?”

“Sorry,” Wilson apologized, breaking away from the family knot, and re-joining House.

“Eh,” House replied. “Given your track record, they have good reason to second-guess your judgment on the marriage thing.”

“But –”

House gave him a friendly rap on the arm. “Being right this time doesn’t negate all the times you were wrong. The county clerk’s here, isn’t he? Can we get the show on the road before I start to scream?”

Smart idea. Wilson offered his arm for House to use as leverage getting up, then gladly accepted House leaning on him for support as they made their way to the door.

Still across the room, his family was showing no signs of moving; he gestured impatiently at them. “Come on.”

“James...” Mom called, and Wilson suddenly realized with amusement they had no clue what was going on.

“This does look crazy, doesn’t it?” At his family’s somber nods, he laughed. “It’s simple. I told House I wanted him sober today, and he took me at my word.”

Their confusion didn’t seem to lessen. Paul was the first to speak. “What in the –”

“No alcohol, no pharmaceuticals for pain relief since yesterday,” House explained. “Just breathing, massage –”

“Hence Ingrid,” Wilson explained.

“– and visualization.”

Exploring more than one alternative form of relief; Wilson couldn’t be more impressed. He squeezed House’s waist affectionately. “Visualization, seriously? What did you visualize?”

“Taking drugs, mostly.” House grimaced and clamped a hand onto his thigh as a spike of pain seemed to run through him. “Let’s go before this gesture of clear-headedness gets destroyed by delirium.”

As they walked down the hall together, Wilson leaned in close to murmur, “You brought morphine, didn’t you?”

“Syringe in my pocket.”

“This is the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

“Sap,” House growled, but Wilson could see the smile in his eyes.

* * *

With extraordinarily good scotch in his stomach, the sounds of the best jazz trio in the East in his ears, and his very warm, very relaxed husband wrapped around him as they swayed, Wilson was feeling the mellowest he’d probably ever felt. Pleased, peaceful, and content.

House’s hand ran luxuriously through Wilson’s hair a few times, and Wilson sighed a quiet, happy breath.

“House?”

“Hmm?”

“What color is my hair?”

“Brown.”

Wilson pulled back just a few inches to regard House with a calmly skeptical look.

“With green streaks,” House continued. He lifted his right hand to eye level, showing Wilson the loose-fitting glove smudged with a lime green gel.

“We’re having our pictures taken professionally,” Wilson noted.

“I know.”

Closing his eyes, Wilson settled against House again. “OK.”

After a brief moment of quiet swaying, House rumbled, “You look like a wood nymph.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“In _my_ eyes.”

“OK, then.”

“You’re going to have the pictures printed in black and white, aren’t you?”

“It’s a possibility. Hey, not the eyebrows.” Wilson batted away House’s gloved hand, which was dangerously close to his face.

“So they’ll match. I know how you like it when things are coordinated like that.”

Amused, Wilson snorted. “That’s more than all right.”

“C’mon, let me touch ’em,” House whined. “Your eyebrows are my favorite part of you.”

“ _Favorite_?”

“My favorite public part.” House’s left arm dipped lower around Wilson’s waist and tugged him closer. “I’d much rather be handling my absolute favorite part of you, but in deference to your family and friends, I’m refraining. For now.”

Wilson kissed House for his kindness, and stripped off the plastic glove of doom at the same time.

A few minutes later, Wilson had made his way back to the bar when his parents caught sight of him.

“What happened to your hair?” Mom exclaimed, grabbing him by the chin to turn his head side to side for closer inspection.

“House,” he explained with a smile.

“Why in the world...?”

“For _fun_.”

His father’s headshake of disappointment was sadly familiar. “Why would you let someone humiliate you like that?”

“I’m not humiliated,” Wilson replied. “It’s just hair. Who cares?”

“It’s your wedding day,” Mom clucked, stroking his arm. “Everything should be perfect.”

Looking across the room, Wilson saw House, relaxed and handsome, laughing comfortably with his mother and Chase.

“Everything _is_ perfect,” he said.


End file.
